


Kicking up ashes

by PepperPrints



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: “It’s like there’s no heart left in you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 4x02. 
> 
> I'm not as familiar working with this fandom, so hopefully my canon is all where it needs to be.

“I’m sorry,” comes the sound of Billy’s voice from Flint’s back.

 

For such a large man, his strides are surprisingly soft as he approaches Flint, crossing the wreckage that was once the home that Miranda Hamilton maintained with such dutiful care.

 

“About all this,” Billy finishes stiffly, nodding slightly to their surroundings. His footfalls speak to the idea enough: boots crunching audibly on burnt papers and torn carpet. Those barely recognizable remnants of what this place used to be speak to something. The shattered porcelain. The mangled books. This house was something beautiful once, and now it’s a wreck.

 

The idea strikes a chord. This strange, sick ruin… is this how Flint looks? Is the image similar to his dissent into all this chaos? A once honest man in royal uniform, now scarred and stained with blood he can’t even bother washing clean… it’s the same as this, isn’t it? 

 

Isn’t he a house on fire?

 

Flint doesn’t even have the dry humor left in him to scoff. He would have, once, and he can’t bring himself to mourn its absence. For several seconds, he feels absolutely nothing -- which is honestly more condemning than offense and rage would be.

 

“I know it was important to you,” Billy continues, his face visibly tight. He’s forcing himself through this, to say it even though they just spent the evening arguing. Some sense of duty must compel him to, despite whatever animosity he feels for Flint.

 

That’s what sets Billy apart, and always has. Sentimentality. It’s why he’s always so good with the men; it’s why he appeals to them in ways that Flint and Silver do not. Flint has never been able to strike that careful balance: the camaraderie along with the respect. There’s always been too much fear, too many threats. 

 

That’s why, even if they’re set on such opposing sides of where this battle will proceed, Billy still comes to him, apologizing for the state he’s made of the place Flint could have once called home. 

 

Still, even so, some bitterness sneaks in. “And I suppose that’s part of why you’re acting like you are,” he adds, which brings Flint to slowly turn towards him. “I want you to know… I understand why you’re upset.”

 

Billy’s changed too. He’s kept his heart, somehow, though Flint can’t imagine by what means. Even so, there’s a shadow that hovers around him, and a certain aura of intimidation. It’s similar enough, but an entirely different beast that the force Flint wields. Billy burns hot where Flint is cold.

 

“Is that all?” Flint asks bluntly. That hollowness he originally felt is now being filled up, an emptiness rising to the brim with quietly simmering rage. “Do you think that’s why I’m  _ upset _ ?” 

 

The word itself seems so pitifully small. In all of the world, of all the things that has happened, the things he has done and had done to him… to deem him  _ upset _ , like a disciplined child, feels like a slap across his mouth.

 

He is ruined. He is hollow. Flint would be overjoyed, any day, to be something as simple as upset.

 

His hand roams, drifting over Miranda’s dresser. There’s a novel with half its cover torn off, a jewelry box off its hinges with its contents empty, and a shattered lamp. His hand collects the book, and his voice is low and steady.

 

“Do you think I’m upset about a ruined book?” he asks lowly and bitterly, not looking Billy in his face. “Do you think I’m upset about broken dinner plates?” 

 

“No,” Billy counters sharply, with an immediacy that surprises Flint somewhat. “Not that. Of course not that.”

 

Turning his head, Flint scans Billy up and down with his eyes. Huffing in an exasperated exhale, Billy folds his arms across his chest. He’s trying, Flint can tell, and his brows tighten as he visibly rethinks his approach.

 

He cares. Maybe not for Flint, exactly, but about what Flint represents. That’s why Billy stood by him. Billy could have ruined him, when he came back from a watery grave. Three words could have cost Flint everything:  _ He pushed me. He let go. He killed me. _

 

But Billy held his tongue. There are reasons Flint does understand, and others he does not. These men matter to him, their welfare matters, and to ensure not one of them is tortured as Billy was, Flint is the man who must lead them. 

 

That’s why, despite frustration, despite betrayals, Billy is trying to sympathize with him. 

 

“Not the things themselves,” Billy rephrases slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully, “but what they mean. What this place --” a pause, where Billy nods to the room around them “--means.” 

 

Flint is silent, watching Billy almost warily. Pressing his lips in a thin line, Billy shakes his head. “I know this place meant something,” he concludes, “and now it’s gone. I need to know if anything else is lost with it.”

 

Arching a brow, Flint takes a deliberate step forward. The book stays in his hand, his thumb brushing its ruined spine. “Such as?” he inquires, almost like an accusation.

 

“I’ve seen you at the end of your rope,” Billy reminds easily. It isn’t spoken aggressively, but rather just matter of fact. He’s gotten better at his means of negotiation and his tendency to barter; Flint would be impressed if his offense wasn’t otherwise distracting him. “I need to know--”

 

“There’s no concern,” Flint interrupts abruptly. “If you think this place -- the state of this place -- is going to render me incapable of rational thought, you’re mistaken.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Billy holds his ground, his gaze focused on Flint’s face. He’s looking for something there, and Flint cannot put a word to it. Maybe Billy isn’t sure what it is himself. Flint stays equally level, head tilting up towards him. Billy’s height must do him a great deal of good when it comes to intimidation, but Flint finds himself unbothered, despite his every reason to be.

 

Billy is younger, larger, and by all means surely stronger by simple advantage of his years and pure body mass. He’s cared for by his men and he’s sharper than most give credit. His wit gets lost, Flint imagines, behind the brains of Silver or himself -- but Billy is a quiet force, gradually building power where no one is thinking to look, and he does it through his devotion, through his attention to his men.

 

Flint can recognize that sentiment, that drive to do right by his fellow men, his earnest disposition and his strong willed heart. He knows where he’s seen it before, and he knows what power it holds, but he can’t give the comparison a name.

 

Silver is like Flint --  _ was _ like him. Silver is gone, swallowed up by the same ocean that spat Billy back out again. Perhaps because he was too much like Flint. But Billy. Billy is like…

 

Flint can’t finish the thought.

 

“Maybe,” Billy says disbelievingly, and his voice has gone quiet, oddly soft. “But something is different.”

 

“What?” Flint asks, finding his tone has lowered to match Billy’s gentler cadence. He can’t replicate it entirely; his voice stays sharp somehow, with a harsher undercurrent biting underneath it. “What’s different?”

 

Every step closer he takes only seems to emphasize the height Billy has over him. Despite it all, Billy’s demeanor doesn’t wield those extra inches as a threat. There’s still softness in his face, and something clear in the brightness of his eyes. 

 

“I don’t know,” Billy admits in a sigh. His arms lower from across his chest, his shoulder slumping in something like defeat. All at once, he looks suddenly tired, and terribly uncertain. “Whatever’s missing… it’s something important.” 

 

For a moment, Billy looks hesitant. His jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and he tilts his head when he looks at Flint. There’s a visible debate in him, like there’s words squirming in his mouth that he’s reluctant to let free. Flint almost pries, almost asks again, but Billy eventually elaborates.

 

“It’s like there’s no heart left in you,” Billy tells him. 

 

Flint unconsciously tightens his grip on the book, clamping down hard enough to feel its already weakened cover cracking beneath his nails.

 

Billy is a good man. That thought pushes in, sudden and sharp enough to pierce Flint’s chest. Billy has kept his heart. No one has torn it out of him yet. No one has turned it black - nor did it drown when he was lost beneath the waves.

 

Moving all at once, Flint reaches out. There’s such a small space between them that it’s easy to curl his fingers around the jewelry at Billy’s neck, its pendant warm against his palm. He pulls, almost certain it will snap, but Billy yields to him instead, bending so their foreheads touch.

 

“It’s there,” Flint insists, because he has to, he has to believe it is. His free hand finds Billy’s, pressing it hard against his chest. “Dig for it. Find it. See it for yourself.”

 

The hesitation is only the briefest second of pause, and then Billy takes the invitation, hands pulling at his clothing hard enough to tear. Their mouths meet, and Flint has to doubt himself when his first instinct is to bite rather than to kiss.

 

Billy curses, just once, in a mixture of what may be disbelief for his actions and frustration for Flint’s stubbornly sticking jacket. Without warning, big hands grip the back of Flint’s thighs and abruptly lift. It’s terribly easy how Billy picks him up, holds him to his chest, and presses his back against the nearest wall. The book falls from Flint’s hand, unintentionally kicked aside by Billy’s boot.

 

Billy groans into his throat, the sound of it seeming like an unraveling thread. Comparatively, Flint tries to hold his tongue, too aware of how much desperation lurks in his lungs. The task is harder than it seems, since -- whether intentionally or not -- Billy seems determined to draw noise out of him.

 

Even as he’s clearly acting out of a feverish rush of impulse, Billy is persistently gentle. His kisses lack teeth, even when his mouth follows the line of Flint’s jaw, sliding up to suck around the stud in his ear. All of his weight, all of his sheer muscle and he’s this soft with every gesture. 

 

Which isn’t to say at all he’s lacking enthusiasm. He’s breathing unsteadily against his neck, fingers digging into Flint’s thighs as he rocks up towards him, tangibly hot and hard even through the layers of their clothes. Flint wants to push him; the urge is sudden and dark, filling up the empty cracks inside his chest.

 

Something raw and almost grim grips at Flint’s core, adrenaline shooting up from the base of his spine. With one hand, blunt nails press into the hard muscle of Billy’s arms, and the other cups the back of his head.

 

“Fuck me,” he murmurs lowly, voice harsh against Billy’s ear, and the reaction isn’t at all what he anticipates.

 

Resisting the push of Flint’s hand, Billy tilts his head back. His eyes are cloudy, hazy with lust, but clearing as he blinks twice at him.  Practicality is cutting through his fervor, realizing the lack of any means to follow up on Flint’s demand, and his expression tightens. “I can’t…” he answers back uncertainly, body half stuttering in indecision.

 

“You can,” Flint urges quietly, nails dragging against his scalp, but Billy holds firm.

 

“That’ll hurt you,” he persists, and realization seems to dawn on his expression. He leans back, his hands loosening their vice-grip on Flint’s legs. Billy stares at him, as if fully seeing him for the first time. “I’m not here to help you hurt yourself.”

 

Billy narrows his eyes, as if he isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking at. Flint can feel the tension bleeding out of his body, his breaths slowing, and Billy shakes his head.

 

For a moment, Flint is certain Billy intends to withdraw from him entirely. Instead, he presses close, and his mouth finds the base of Flint’s ear. He lingers there, sighing against Flint’s skin, and his tongue traces his piercing once again.

 

By all means, Billy should end this. Flint has more or less proven Billy’s accusation: he’s lost something essential at the core of himself, and now threatens to pervert what Billy has offered him with something cruel. Instead of calling that out, he persists. 

 

He digs, as Flint invited him to. Does that mean Billy is so convinced that it isn’t a pointless effort to try?

 

Exhaling uneasily, Flint lets his eyes slip shut. Lifting his legs, he crosses his ankles at the small of Billy’s back, heels digging in to anchor him where he stands. He pulls him in, keeps him close, and lets his mouth hang open when Billy kisses him.

 

There’s a certain slowness about it. Pushing deeper with his tongue, Billy traces the shape of his teeth. Distantly, Flint wonders if that’s a dare; if Billy wouldn’t expect Flint to goad him again, this time with a bite. Flint doesn’t, staying pliant as Billy pushes deeper into his mouth, and Billy responds with a quiet moan.

 

Gradually, Billy starts to move again. He rolls his hips, slower now, and his pace gradually picks up rhythm. Positioned as he is, Flint doesn’t have much leverage to move back on him. The most he can do is pull Billy in tighter, and feel the heat of him flush against his chest.

 

Flint speaks again. It’s almost a risk, given how well his last request was received, but this time his invitation is less compromising. Twisting his head to break the contact of the kiss, he mutters against the wet skin of Billy’s lips. “More.”

 

There’s no hesitation in Billy this time, no suspicion or doubt. He just acts, sure and a little shaky in his own right. One big arm shifts, bracing the back of Flint’s thighs, while the other works Flint’s pants open, then his own. From there, Flint spits into his palm, reaching between their tightly pressed bodies to take both of them in his hand and squeeze.

 

Gasping, Billy leans into him, both hands back to bracing Flint. There’s the tangible press of blunt nails, even through the layer of his clothes, as Billy clenches down on his thighs. Billy thrusts up against him, panting shallow and hot, and Flint has to feel some indulgent satisfaction: Billy, so tall and physically imposing, is shaking and short of breath from Flint’s hand. 

 

It’s abrupt, how quickly Billy’s own worn hand surrounds Flint’s, encouraging his pace a little harder, but a little slower at the same time. He shakes, and they’re too close together for Flint to mistake it for anything less than what it is: Flint squeezes his hand, and Billy curses as he comes, head falling against Flint’s shoulder. 

 

Billy doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. He lets Flint’s legs -- unsteady as they are -- fall back to the floor, and Flint is grateful for the wall at his back keeping him upright, since Billy is sinking to his knees and pressing his mouth to his cock.

 

Louder than he ought to, Flint swears, his clean hand gripping down tight on Billy’s shoulder. It’s an effort to keep himself from simply giving in and fucking Billy’s mouth, even if Billy’s hold on his hips is clearly coaxing him to do just that. Moaning around him, Billy slackens his jaw, pulls him close, and Flint hisses out his next exhale. Head tipping back against the wall, Flint clenches his jaw, muffling himself when he comes undone in Billy’s mouth.

 

Left short of breath, Flint slumps against the wall at his back, partially owing his steadiness to Billy’s lingering grip on his hip. He stays that way as his breathing settles, with Billy kneeling in front of him like it’s no concern at all to be there. Belatedly, in an almost unconscious motion, Flint fixes his clothing, and Billy does the same, tension returning to his face. 

 

Before he rises to his feet, Billy reaches out. His hand reclaims the charred book, and he passes it back to Flint as he rises to his feet. “It’s still got all its pages,” he observes, “even if it’s burnt outside.”

 

Shrugging, Billy continues. “If you even bother with that anymore,” he adds, “maybe you’re tired of it.”

 

_ “Aren’t you tired of it?” Thomas asks, smiling as his hand closes over a familiar book. “I read this to you almost every time.” _

 

Flint clenches his jaw, and his hand clenches too, feeling the familiar weight of it. “I’m tired of a lot of things,” he tells Billy, flat and more upfront than he’s been in quite some time. “But not this.”

 

Billy looks him in the eyes as he says it, lingering for a moment longer than he ought to before he bows his head again. “Sorry,” he says quietly in the aftermath of it, as if he’d fallen into this by accident. 

 

A grim, humorless scoff enters Flint’s voice in reply. “You didn’t like what you found,” he surmises, tilting his head as he looks at the concern written over Billy’s face. 

 

“No,” Billy replies honestly, if not sadly. “But at least there was something to find.”


End file.
